


Can't Fight the Friction

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Season/Series 03, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So shut me up,” Stiles purrs, batting her lashes. “Just for a little while.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Fight the Friction

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had the idea of Stiles and Derek fucking in the woods for awhile. Specifically, Girl Stiles and Derek fucking in the woods, back when they were at each other's throats constantly. And then felicitysmock showed up with [these tags](http://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/post/124007246875/samann98-when-youre-reminded-of-your-ex), which has kind of been my headcanon for Stiles and Derek post-season 2/pre-season 3 for a while now. But it made me sit up and go, oh! Hey! I can write that horribly self-indulgent rough sex PWP during that time period and it solves all my problems! So I did. And it was grand. Probably.

Stiles doesn’t know how it started. Well, no. That’s a lie. It probably started the moment she cleverly maneuvered herself into the front seat of a police cruiser and told Derek Hale that she wasn’t afraid of him. 

Hell, sure, Stiles has had fantasies before. Every girl has them. You don’t have a crush on someone like Lydia Martin for nearly a decade and _not_ get hot off on the whole hot, dominating thing. But even when Stiles had dreams about Lydia Martin tying her up and spanking her a little bit, it almost always turned gentle in the end. There wasn’t ever any intentional cruelty, not in Stiles’ fantasy land.

With Derek, things are different.

He’s barbed all over, from his impeccable, tension wrought posture to the way he bares his teeth in the parody of a smile, and she thinks that somewhere along the way, Derek Hale might have forgotten how to be a person, at least a little bit.

Stiles grew up as the only daughter of the town sheriff. She’s taken the self defense classes, knows all about stranger danger, and is well aware that if a man puts his hand on you without your express permission, you best do your damndest to kick him so hard in the nads that he never even _thinks_ about having children.

She has no defense for why her immediate reaction to Derek Hale breaking into her bedroom and slamming her up against the wall wasn’t to pulverize his genitalia and run screaming. But for some reason, it wasn’t. She had mace. She had her fists, her knees, her elbows, and every other pointy body part that could be used as a deadly weapon.

Just, when he pressed her up against the door and whispered threats between bared teeth, he didn’t particularly scare her. Maybe it was the artfully coiffed hair or the chiseled jaw talking, but mostly? She just felt turned on.

And judging by the way Derek's gaze flickered down to her mouth, she wasn’t the only one.

Life went on.

Stiles was still best friends with a teenage werewolf who thought it was his life’s mission to reenact Romeo and Juliet, her schoolwork was impeccable in a very erratic kind of way, and she still took an Adderall every morning before breakfast.

She just… also realized that grumpy werewolves with an unhealthy chip on their shoulders and a propensity for manhandling her into things turned her crank. It was a thing. A quiet thing. That neither of them acknowledged, no matter how many times it happened.

Then Erica and Boyd disappeared, and against all odds, Derek showed up at _her_ window looking for help. 

And really, it’s not like she was going to do the summer reading anyway.

.

“This is all your fault,” Stiles tells him, kicking through a bed of decaying leaves. She didn’t even know that leaves on the ground was still a thing during the summer until she started traipsing around the preserve day in and day out, but look at that. Now it’s just another part of the scenery, like the sun slanting in through the canopy or the bright patches of green grass sprouting up between the brown, crumbling leaves.

Derek glowers at her, and pointedly doesn’t kick the leaves back at her. He doesn’t argue though, because she’s kind of right and he knows it.

Erica and Boyd’s trail is cold. It’s been cold for days, but they’ve been out here every day anyway, searching. The first week, Stiles had brought her laptop with its trusty mobile wifi card up to the Hale house, because for some reason when Derek had told her that they needed to look for his runaway pack, she’d thought he meant something logical, like tracking their movements via credit card or something. Stupid her. Werewolves are never logical.

And now here they are, miles and miles from the house, because Derek had heard the sound of _enemy wolves_ , and immediately scooped her up and sprinted for the hills.

“I mean, were you ever planning on telling me that there’s another pack out here? Or did you just, I don’t know, think that wasn’t important information?”

Stiles licks her lips, stumbling on a root hidden in the foliage. There’s the ghost of a touch against the small of her back, as if Derek had reached out to steady her, but by the time she looks back, his hands are at his sides again, and he’s still glowering.

Silence. Of fucking course. 

Stiles turns on him, sensible ponytail slapping against her shoulder as she spins, and for a moment, she regrets growing it out again. No matter how sensible the ponytail, short hair will always be more efficient.

“Seriously, Derek,” she hisses, leaning in to poke him in the chest, trying to channel every pointy bone in her body to just that one finger. She wants it to _hurt_. “Because I definitely would have wanted to know that I was putting my life on the line. Again!”

There’s a rumbling growl that starts deep in his chest that used to scare the ever loving shit out of her. It’s an inhuman, animal sound that sends off warning bells as loud as claxons to every pithy human instinct she has. Over the last few weeks, Stiles has learned to ignore it. After all, if Derek hasn’t killed her yet, chances are he’s not going to.

“None of that,” she growls back, leaning in close and flicking his nose. His eyes flare red in response, hands darting up to wrap around her wrists, effectively halting her movement. She bares her teeth at him, and struggles, just to be contrary.

“Cut it out,” he tells her, claws pricking her skin.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Derek's eyes narrow into slits, so she narrows hers right back. After a moment or two of charged silence, he lets her go, shaking his head. “I have no idea what’s wrong with you.”

 _Righteous indignation, my old_ , she thinks.

“What’s wrong with _me_?” she says incredulously, choking on a disbelieving laugh. Anger feels a lot like wildfire in your chest and just now, it’s starting to spark. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek sneers, eyes flashing, as if she’d forgotten in the five minutes since it last came up. “What’s your excuse? Most humans would have been running the other way the second they found out the truth, but you-”

He trails off, looking frustrated. He gestures, broadly, to what appears to be her entire person.

“I, what?” she counters, suddenly furious. “I actually care about keeping my family and friends safe? I want to make this town _better_ , because my werewolf best friend can’t be fucked to care about anything other than the shiniest dimples in all the land? Yeah, what of it? This is my _home_.”

“You literally have no self preservation instincts!” Derek yells, fists clenching at his sides. She thinks she can see blood on his hands and there’s fire in her veins, and she wants to _hurt_ him—

Stiles snarls and steps forward, fisting a hand in the neck of Derek's henley. Her fingers graze his pulse and he jerks as if electrocuted, wolfing out so fast that she feels dizzy. It should scare her, should feel like looking at him through the grate of a cruiser and admitting that maybe she was a little scared of him. But somewhere between him risking his neck for her, not once, not twice, but _three_ times, that fear has evaporated, leaving anger alone to fill the void.

“Do _not_ ,” he starts, fangs distorting his speech. “ _Touch_ me.”

Stiles sneers at him and takes another step forward, until they’re toe to toe, and pointedly jabs him in the neck. “Whatcha gonna do? Big bad wolf gonna gobble me up?”

She never thinks these things through. Doesn’t think much at all during situations like these, running on hot blood and that famous Stilinski stubbornness, so she couldn’t have predicted how Derek would snarl, get his hands underneath her thighs, and heft her up, moving them backwards until her back thumped roughly against the nearest tree.

Derek is breathing heavy, and he’s closer now than he was during the bonesaw incident what feels like ages ago, and it’s stupid. He's stupid. His whole gorgeous fucking face is stupid.

“Scared now?” Derek asks her, sharp teeth inches away from her jugular, and her heart gives in an uneven, irregular thump.

“You wish,” she jeers, hands clenching tight on his shoulders. His hands are hot against the backs of her thighs, even through the jeans, and she’s just dangling there, pressed between him and the tree, her toes not even touching the ground.

His nostrils flare and he gives this little shudder, like he’s cracking his neck and spine at the same time, and it’s like a switch has been flipped, because they’re crashing together, messy and uncoordinated. Her legs wrap around his hips and her arms around his shoulders, and he hefts her even higher, kissing her like he’s been dying to do it as much as she has.

Kissing Derek is everything that she would have imagined and more. It’s hot and a little bit painful, all teeth and tongue, the hot planes of his body pressing almost uncomfortably hard against hers. It’s stifling, and his beard burns when it rubs against her skin, but it also makes it easy to press herself tighter against the erection tenting his pants and jerk their hips together until they’re both panting.

It’s funny, because everyone assumes that Stiles is a virgin. Never been kissed, that Stilinski girl, too busy pining after Lydia Martin to notice anything else. But Stiles isn’t a fucking idiot, and Lydia would never want someone inexperienced. Lydia liked to mold her toys to her liking, but that didn’t mean she liked _virgins_.

So no, Stiles might be a geeky, hyperactive spaz, but she’s had sex. Not _a lot_ of sex, but enough to know what she likes and doesn’t like. Stiles like boys and girls. She likes the feel of someone going down on her, but not as much as she likes going down on someone else. She likes getting fucked, hard and messy, slow and forgiving, whatever. She likes riding someone into the ground and knows from the one time that her date had passed her a strap on with a shy smile that she also likes fucking someone until they’re begging.

But right now, Stiles wants Derek to fuck her. She could ride him, sure, and it would probably be just as hot, but ever since that time he’d pinned her to the wall in her room she’s been dying to know what it would feel like if he held her down for an entirely different reason.

She bites him hard, and watches, transfixed, as the bloody indents from her teeth vanish before her eyes. When she looks back up, Derek is watching her, one eyebrow arched in cocky amusement.

“Like to bite?” he drawls, dragging their hips together in a torturous tease.

Stiles bares her bloody teeth in a smile. “And you like getting bitten. Match made in heaven.”

“Hmm,” he hums, leaning in and nipping at her neck. It’s unbearably gentle, out of place here in the woods, with her and him and everything between them, and Stiles startles when she realizes that he’s testing the waters, asking how she feels about it.

“I’m good with biting,” she tells him, licking her lips. “But I don’t want to be a werewolf.”

He nods again, gravely, and that’s out of place too. It’s like they’re at the eye of the storm, this moment of calm before everything spins out of control again. He leans in again, licks the place that he’d bitten, and then bites again, harder, just enough to make it sting.

“Mmm,” she purrs, rolling her hips forward. Claws prickle against her thigh, and Derek was right, she really doesn’t have any self preservation instincts, because she presses _into_ the touch, whining in the back of her throat. She reaches between them and palms his cock through his pants, offering him a filthy grin when he gasps.

“You need to let me down if you want to fuck me,” she pants, digging her nails into his shoulders when he does something ridiculously hot with his mouth.

He pulls back to look up at her from under thick lashes and smirks. She has just enough time to gasp out a helpless denial before she feels the snick of his claws against her thigh.

“You fucking asshole!” she cries, punching him in the shoulder. “These were my favorite pair!”

Derek’s smirk widens, showing off a hint of his teeth as he gets a hand between them and starts fumbling for his belt. She growls, batting his hands to the side so she can do it herself, angrily tabbing the button open and jerking the zipper down. When she gets her hand around his dick and pulls it out, he shivers a little and mouths lazily at her neck, watching with interest as she jerks her underwear to the side.

“I won’t forgive you for this,” Stiles says with a glare, guiding his cock between the spread lips of her dripping cunt. She pauses there, distracted by the feel of his cock brushing between her curls, nudging up against her clit. Derek indulges her, dragging it up and down along her slit as she shivers and whines.

“I’ll buy you a new pair of pants,” he tells her.

She doesn’t get the chance to tell him that he fucking better, because then he’s pushing into her, fast and all at once.

It always takes her a second to catch her breath after, adjusting to the too full, too right fit of a cock inside her. Derek’s the fourth person she’s ever fucked, not counting the girl she fooled around with in summer camp one year, and so far he’s her favorite, because he doesn’t stop to let her adjust. He fucks her straight through that moment of almost too intense pleasure, lips drawing back into a smile against her skin.

Derek doesn’t fuck like a human. A human wouldn’t be able to hold her up like this and fuck her the way he’s fucking her. It’s harder, faster, and better than anything she’s used to, and Stiles loves it. Loves the way he tips her head back and bites her neck, the way he tugs at her hair, how his carefully human nails leave tracks of red against her shoulderblades.

It’s intense and calculated. Uncontrollable and passionate. He’s a man full of contradictions at the best of times and it doesn’t appear to be any different here.

At one point, Derek lets her down, pulling out and spinning her over so fast that she doesn’t even have time to whine her displeasure before he’s settling her onto her hands and knees and pushing back in again, the change of position making her cry out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chants, fingers curling into the leaf litter. Her toes are curling in her goddamn shoes, her nipples tight against her chest when Derek lets go of the shallow dip of her belly long enough to slip a hand up her shirt and under her bra.

He laughs, breath hot against the back of her neck and pinches a nipple between two fingers. “You have no idea,” Derek chuckles, mouthing at the nape of her neck; biting down as hard as he can get away with.

“No idea what?” Stiles pants. God, it’s like nothing else exists. Birds are singing, the sun is shining, and somewhere there’s a pack of werewolves that want to eat them, but none of that fucking matters. All that matters is Derek’s hands on her, his cock inside her, his lips on her skin.

“You smell like _sex_ all the fucking time,” he groans, and she’s about to protest, because um, no, when he continues. “Whenever I’m with you, every single time, you’ve been dripping for me. It’s all I can smell, just you, and I could never—”

Stiles pushes back against him, laughing when he growls and gets a hold of her ponytail, yanking her head back so her neck is a long, white tempting line. “Yeah?”

He nods, lips on her neck, and murmurs, “I wanted to. You were so fucking infuriating, and you were never _scared_ , and I just wanted to hold you down and make you stop talking. Just for a little while.”

She laughs again, grunting when his next thrust makes her arms crumple out from beneath her. Cheek pillowed on the leaves, she looks over her shoulder at him, and smirks slyly. “So shut me up,” she purrs, batting her lashes. “Just for a little while.”

And he does.

Just for a little while.

.

Afterwards, when the sun is just starting to dip below the horizon, she turns to Derek. “Seriously though, you’re buying me a new pair of pants.”

He snorts a laugh, looking up at her, a breathtakingly real smile curling around his lips. “I’ll buy you twenty.”

She sniffs a little and thinks, _oh no_ , when the smile widens, morphing into something almost bright, with just a hint of fond amusement. Derek Hale isn’t allowed to smile like that.

“And you’re carrying me back,” she says, testing.

Derek nods, still looking amused. “And I’m carrying you back.”

Stiles scrunches up her nose, considering him. He’s sprawled out in the leaves, an arm tucked behind his head, dick only zipped back into his pants because she’d put it there herself, carefully tucking it back into his jeans as he watched on in amusement.

She bites her lip. Adds, somewhat shyly, “And this is definitely going to happen again.”

The smile is definitely brighter now, but there’s a hint of sharpness there as he sits up, scooting closer to her, until she can feel his breath on her cheek. He kisses her, not quite gentle, not quite hard, and a hand comes up to cradle the back of her skull.

When he pulls away, his eyes are practically dancing.

“And this is _definitely_ happening again,” he agrees, tugging playfully at a strand of hair that’s come free of her ponytail.

Oh no, Stiles thinks.

 


End file.
